


Unconventional

by Aithilin, Wind_Ryder



Series: Something New [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Gender Issues, M/M, Polyamory, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 12:12:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1604729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock likes to push Victor just to see how far he can go. He finds his answer, and Victor replies by leaving. Lestrade thinks they're both idiots, and helps them work out their differences. Their solution is rather unconventional, but it works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unconventional

For an Omega- Sherlock was considered very odd indeed. For one, he had no desire to kowtow to every Alpha he saw, and was, frankly, very bored with the idea that people were so obsessed with the “proper order.”

 

Alphas tried to tell him what to do, constantly. They leered and towered over him, wicked smiles and tempting gazes. “Don’t you smell pretty?” They asked him, crowding into his personal space.

 

“Not interested.” He snorted each time. If the Alpha kept it up, informing him that he just hadn’t had a good _ride_ yet, that he didn’t know what it was like to be with a _real_ Alpha, he promptly broke their wrist and wasn’t the least bit ashamed. “ _Not_ interested.” He stated firmly.

 

Being an Omega did not mean that he was incapable of controlling his sex life. Heats made him moody, irritable, if left unsatisfied, but he wasn’t a raving lunatic with no idea what he was getting himself into. He was horny, sure. He _wanted_ sex, sure. But like any other non-essential bodily function – it could be overcome fairly easily if he thought about it hard enough.

 

What’s more: Sherlock had never felt the urge to serve anyone. He’d never wanted to be considered less than, or mediocre, simply because he had been born with a “secondary gender.” He honestly didn’t have time for the Omega-pride movement that had started around the time he’d been in University. There had been far too many parades and far too many social gatherings for his liking. It wasn’t considered proper to call it the secondary gender anymore, and a part of him was even somewhat pleased by it, if he analyzed it enough. (He really didn’t analyze it that often.)

 

The only good thing that did come out of those Omega-pride campaigns was Victor Trevor. His dog had taken a liking to Sherlock's ankle just as Sherlock was attempting to get passed a group of enthusiasts. The meeting changed his life.

 

Victor was an Alpha. Probably the only Alpha in the world Sherlock had met by that point that was…surprisingly not very interested in pushing his will on anyone. Where Sherlock had no desire at all to submit and do anyone’s bidding, Victor had no desire to enforce that. “You’re not my servant, Sherlock.” He told him time and again. “You’re my partner. All the rest is just nonsense.” 

 

And when Sherlock’s heat came round, Victor had no qualms laying on his back and letting Sherlock _take_ what he wanted. Sherlock felt no need to hide with Victor, to do anything that wasn’t considered “normal.” Victor, in turn, felt no need to oppress or subject him to hours of drivel. He lay there each time, worshiping Sherlock’s body, whispering: _anything, anything for you, yours, take it,_ and never said:  _mine, you like what I give you, obey._

 

Sherlock deduced long ago that Victor’s family life had contributed to his odd view on the world around him. He really didn’t care. Victor was loving, attentive, sweet, gentle, and a violent rage of powerful Alpha strength that had little to no trouble being vengeful if it meant keeping Sherlock safe or doing his job. While Victor never bothered protecting Sherlock like an overbearing parent that monitored his every waking moment, Victor quite frankly _enjoyed_ hunting down oppressive Alphas who wanted to show how tough they were.

 

Sherlock took care of the ones that dared to actually put their hands on him; Victor took care of those who hadn’t gotten the message. It didn’t rankle Sherlock’s nerves nearly as much as the thought it might. They fit together perfectly; one half of each other’s whole.

 

“I don’t feel like having sex right now.” Sherlock told Victor on several occasions, just when his heat had started to loom.

 

“Want me to go?” Victor had asked him, not really caring one way or another.

 

“Mmm…if you would.”

 

“I’ll stay outside then?” Likely nothing would happen. Hollywood love stories liked to portray Alpha’s as mindless ogres who smell an Omega’s heat and immediately fight through a series of trials just to grasp their prize. It was sickening, and sexist, and a trope that Victor never really understood. It was a cultural fact, however, that was constantly engrained into the younger generation’s minds. It was like the thought of walking down an alley late at night. Some things were best left undone.

 

“And what are _you_ going to do all night?” Sherlock asked him wryly.

 

“Oh you know, lay myself down in supplication and fight off your many challengers.” Victor replied sweetly, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s neck. “All in a day’s work, really.” Sherlock laughed and gave him a brief shove.

 

“Well go on then.”

 

“Bye Bee.” 

 

Victor gave a little wave and then walked out the door. It never bothered him in the least. Why _would_ it? There were days when he didn’t want to deal with posturing either, and Sherlock let him curl in bed and sleep it all off without even a word of protest. This, was not bothersome.

 

Victor couldn’t bring himself to push too much with Sherlock. He couldn’t manage to dictate Sherlock at all. He wouldn’t push the boundaries of their relationship, because he’d seen what happened when Alphas pushed too much and it scarred him deeper than could ever be healed.

 

After those heats, Sherlock would hop down the stairs of whatever little flat they lived in at the time and sit beside him. He’d smell like soap and water, and Victor would lean over to kiss his neck fondly. “Feeling better?” He asked, and Sherlock nodded.

 

“Starving.” He said, stretching slightly. He never ate during his heats; it always made him feel sick and heavy. “Food?”

 

“Sure.” They’d go together, side by side, and talk about meaningless things.

 

Early on in their relationship, Sherlock and Victor became used to the way people gave them looks out of the corner of their eyes. Sherlock was rude, obnoxious, loud, and insistent. Victor was calming and relatively mild mannered, and he had no desire to rein his lover in.

 

Many Alphas insisted on showing their dominance by publically claiming their Omegas. They rubbed their scents over their Omegas and occasionally even had them kneel at their sides like chattel. Sherlock upturned his nose at the whole display, and had no qualms about telling them what horrible bigots they were.

 

“Aren’t you going to do something about your Omega?” Victor was asked over and over.

 

“Why should I? He can do what he likes.” Victor replied.

 

There were times when Sherlock looked at Victor like he was a game to be played with. He liked to push and see exactly how far Victor would go. What exactly _was_ Victor’s breaking point?

 

Talking out in public didn’t do it. Refusing to bare his throat in “submission” that was such a ridiculous concept to begin with, didn’t do it. (In fact, Victor had laughed out loud when Sherlock had brought it up. “We choose who we are, Bee. Our genders don’t make us dominant or submissive. That’s just a ridiculous societal cliché). Asking Victor if he’d like to grow his hair out longer didn’t do it either. Victor didn’t seem to care what he looked like or how he dressed, and if people always thought he was a Beta because he never forced Sherlock to do anything and had long hair: he honestly didn’t give a flying hoot.

 

Apparently the only thing that Sherlock could do that shook his partner was shooting up. Victor stared at him, watched him laugh at nothing while he was high, watched him fall into an endless spiral of ups and downs, and Victor had literally _no idea_ what he was meant to do.

 

“Stop it.” He told Sherlock time and again.

 

“Make me.” Sherlock challenged.

 

“Sherlock, stop it now.”

 

“Thought I was ‘Bee?’ Your Honey Bee…hmm…heheheh…” Sherlock laughed lightly and stumbled towards whatever piece of furniture looked most comfortable. “What are you going to do? Lock me up?”

 

“No.”

 

“Hold me down?”

 

“No.”

 

“Leave?” Victor paused long enough for Sherlock to consider what it’d be like if Victor left. He rolled his eyes towards Victor, and watched as he stood there in stony silence. His ever steady Alpha was almost shaking as he considered that option.

 

“No.” He said at long last.

 

“Then quit boring me. I’m not going to stop.” Sherlock told him, waving his hand towards Victor in frustration.

 

Sherlock wasn’t sure about how things progressed after that, but a week or so later: they both ended up in jail.

 

Sherlock for drugs, Victor for assaulting the officer that had tried to arrest his partner in the first place.

 

The officer in question, Greg Lestrade, had taken one look at both of them and shoved them into the drunk-tank for the night. “Get sober, and work it out.” He told them firmly.

 

They didn’t work it out.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sherlock and Victor started fighting constantly. Back and forth over and over and over again. Sherlock hissing and spitting mad, Victor trying to calm the tirade and faltering over and over. “You don’t understand!” Sherlock shouted at Victor more than once. “Neither do you!” He always replied.

 

Lestrade started becoming a permanent presence in their lives. He dogged their footsteps about the drugs, the public arguments, the attitudes. He scoffed loudly at their living arrangements and insisted they find something more suitable. He started to help them look, when he realized they wouldn’t do it on their own.

 

“For two impressively intelligent individuals: you’re both idiots.” He told them constantly. Neither respected him nearly as much as they probably should have back then.

 

They broke up, Victor insisting that he couldn’t watch Sherlock do this to himself over and over again.

 

They got back together. Sherlock promised he’d stop so long as Victor came home.

 

They had mad and wild sex that was hot and livid and affirming.

 

They broke up, again.

 

They got back together, again.

 

Victor’s father died, and he came into his inheritance. It included a plantation in India that took him miles away from Sherlock and all the madness in London. He left after they’d broken up for the twelfth time, and he made himself promise not to look back. Sherlock called him a coward. He was tempted to agree.

 

If London with Victor needed _some_ drugs in order to be tolerable, Sherlock soon began to do _many_ drugs just to make it _possible_.

 

The first overdose might have been an accident. The second wasn’t.

 

Sherlock woke up in the hospital with a furious officer he had done his best to ignore, and an order from his brother that sent him straight into rehab. Victor didn’t come. Apparently no one called to let him know. Sherlock didn’t bother to do so either.

 

“What happened to your partner?” Lestrade asked. He was surprisingly new age like that, using a word like ‘partner.’

 

“Broke up.”

 

“For how long?” The question hurt worse than it should have. The answer even more so.

 

“For good this time.” Sherlock replied. His eyes prickled with tears and he wished it didn’t burn. He wished it didn’t feel like a piece of his heart had flown to India and left him behind to deal with the gaping wound in his chest. (He wished the hospital allowed him to use the morphine pump).

 

“What a load of bollocks.” Lestrade growled. Sherlock clenched his fists.

 

“You don’t know anything about it.”

 

“You’re right. I don’t. Because God knows after watching you two after all this time, you’ve never bothered to explain what’s got you all out of sorts to begin with. So why don’t you start explaining?” Lestrade snapped back.

 

“There’s nothing to explain-”

 

“I’ve _seen_ you two together when it’s all going right. You’re unstoppable. So what makes it all go wrong?”

 

“He’s the worst Alpha in the history of the world.” Sherlock replied, spewing vile because it felt good to lash out and _damn_ it he was still technically high.

 

“Can’t get it up?”

 

“No! Of course he can get it up!”

 

“Then what the bloody hell is the problem?”

 

“He doesn’t understand!”

 

“Understand _what?_ ” Sherlock came up short at that, blinking up at Lestrade like he’d spoken in another language. “What exactly is the problem? What is it about him that drives you so far round the bend that you like to push and push just to see what’s going to happen?”

 

“He doesn’t _have_ boundaries.” Sherlock told him. Then he frowned and pushed a hand to his head, threading his fingers through his own hair as he tried to reword it. “No, that’s not right.” He murmured, struggling to find the _reason_ things always fell through. “He has boundaries, but he just…he doesn’t do anything about it. He won’t do _anything_ he thinks is bordering on the insistent unless it’s with another Alpha. He’s absolutely firm on that. He’ll make _requests_ , but he won’t actually try to tell me what to do _ever_. Even if-” Sherlock pressed his lips together and looked down and away from Lestrade.

 

“Even if you want him to.” Lestrade finished. He sighed heavily and threaded his hands together in his lap.

 

“He won’t do anything. He won’t make me stop.”

 

“He probably doesn’t know _how_ to make you stop.” Lestrade told him simply.

 

“Well he won’t have to worry about it anymore, will he? He flew to India and he’s not coming back.” Sherlock said. “It’s…too much.”

 

“What about you?”

 

“What _about_ me?”

 

“Well you just told me all the things that he does that drive you round the bend, what is it that you do that hurts him?”

 

“Besides shooting up?” Sherlock asked darkly.

 

“Yeah, besides that.” Lestrade agreed, rolling his eyes in exasperation. Sherlock considered the question. He was sure that there was something he’d done that frustrated Victor to no end, but Victor was surprisingly hard to irritate. He was easy going, constantly changing and accepting of anything and everything Sherlock had to offer.

 

Maybe that was it. Maybe Victor was tired of having to change each day of the week in order to match whatever whim Sherlock had. “I’m…not very stable.” He finally settled on, feeling raw and awkward.

 

“I don’t suppose it occurred you to _talk_ to him about this before he flew off to India?” Sherlock glared at Lestrade firmly. “Right. Sorry. Foolish to ask.”

 

“If you’re not going to be helpful-”

 

“Call him. Tell him you’re in hospital, tell him why, explain to him what you just explained to me, and then say that you want to work it out.”

“How could that _possibly_ make things better?” Sherlock asked, practically seething in fury.

 

“It couldn’t make things worse.” Lestrade replied sharply. “Besides, if he doesn’t come flying right back – he never is. At least you know where you stand.”

 

Sherlock did as Lestrade suggested.

 

It took a few days longer than would have been nice, but in the end: Victor flew right back.

 

It wasn’t going to be forever. Victor had a job and a life in India. But, they realized maybe it would be best if they had some separation from one another from time to time. Lestrade pulled Victor aside almost as soon as he could, taking him down to a private café without Sherlock there in order to have a talk.

 

“What is it _you_ need?” Lestrade asked Victor seriously. Sherlock hadn’t been very clear when he’d declared his faults. If Victor was going to give this another go, he shouldn’t have to be the only one that worked on bettering himself. Head down and shoulders bunched up, if it weren’t for the smell Victor could almost pass for a stereotypical Omega. He was exhausted and worn out, and if coming back wasn’t what was going to be best for _him_ too, then this arrangement wasn’t ever going to work.

 

“I don’t know what you mean.” Victor replied quietly.

 

“Sherlock will make all sorts of demands, and you’ll listen because you love the man. But that doesn’t help you. What is wrong with this relationship?” Lestrade asked, keeping his voice low and moderated.

 

“To serve is to love.” Victor sounded like he was quoting something archaic, and it took Lestrade a moment to think about it. Victor spent his life serving Sherlock because he loved him more than any other. He’d do anything Sherlock asked of him. _Anything_. But Sherlock didn’t return the favor. He asked and asked, but he rarely gave back. Victor wouldn’t ask for anything himself, and Sherlock wouldn’t give it unless he knew he was _supposed_ to give it.

 

“Talk to him.” Lestrade told Victor firmly. “Talk to him, every day you can. And if you start to become worked up again because you’ve no idea what you’re _meant_ to be doing, give me a call. We’ll work it out.”

 

Victor didn’t promise to call, though he pocketed Lestrade’s card. The officer watched the younger man try to make their relationship work, and he watched as Victor went back to India. Days later, Lestrade was surprised to find that it was _Sherlock_ who called him instead.

 

Sherlock was pacing his flat with the kind of nervous energy usually reserved for drug use. “I haven’t taken anything.” He denied sharply as soon as Lestrade arrived. “I can’t seem to stop thinking, and I need to. I really need to, or else I’m _going_ to use, and I don’t have the kind of strength at the moment to work out what’s too much.” It was refreshingly honest of him.

 

“Okay. Okay, let’s work it out then.” Lestrade told him calmly. “Stop walking, and sit down.” Before he even noted if Sherlock was listening, Lestrade sat in a chair across from the hideous sofa he’d hated from the first time he saw it. Sherlock practically threw himself onto the blasted thing, arms crossed and fingers tapping against his shirt-sleeves. “Start talking.” Lestrade offered.

 

“About what?”

 

“Anything you like. What are you thinking about? Every thought that crosses your mind, say it out loud.”

 

“What possible good could that do?”  

 

“You think faster than you speak, you’d be surprised how much it’ll slow you down. It won’t make much sense either.” Lestrade promised. “Try it.”

 

And to his immense surprise, _he did_.

 

Lestrade was eternally aware of Sherlock’s presence, just as Sherlock seemed to be eternally aware of Lestrade’s. Days and weeks passed, and Sherlock still called Lestrade to come to his flat. Sometimes they just spoke of nonsense to one another, other times…other times Sherlock’s mind was wound so tight that Lestrade let him rest his head against his thigh, and he stroked a hand over Sherlock’s arms and back until the younger man relaxed against him.

 

It was those moments, with Sherlock sleeping so trustingly in his presence, did the first tendrils of mischief start to sneak out. _He’s not here_. His mind informed him, as he gently played with the back of Sherlock’s hair. Victor’s bond mark on Sherlock’s neck was almost hidden by Sherlock’s longer curls. Lestrade could imagine putting a mark right over it- sealing himself against Sherlock’s skin and replacing the absentee Alpha who hadn’t gotten it right.

 

His mind travelled to Sherlock's Alpha, quiet and unassuming, but truly kind and doting. He thought about Victor Trevor sitting in India by himself, working alone because he and Sherlock didn't do so great when they were together for extended periods. Sherlock loved him, and Victor loved him back. Lestrade never did anything to Sherlock. He never touched him, never tested the waters. It wouldn’t be right. He knew full well where Sherlock’s loyalties lay. It wasn’t with him. It probably never would be.

 

It was on his way home from work one evening, almost four months after Victor had last visited, when Lestrade realized how Sherlock had his number. Victor had given it to him. He’d given the card to Sherlock because Sherlock wasn’t afraid to call and ask for something if he wanted it, but Victor never would.

 

Cursing, he dialed Sherlock’s number and within a few minutes he had Victor’s written down. Phoning India, he waited irritably until Victor’s exhausted voice finally picked up. “ _Hailo_?” Lestrade blinked at the odd pronunciation, and apparently it was one second too long. “ _Aap kaun bol rahe hain?_ ” Indian. He was speaking Indian!

 

“Um, it’s Lestrade, the Officer from-”

 

“London.” Victor’s voice turned urgent, and suddenly far more awake than before. “Is Sherlock all right?” Lestrade winced. He hadn’t thought that far ahead, and he should have. Of course a late night call from an officer would concern the younger man.

 

“Yes. Yes, he’s fine. I’ve just finished speaking with him in fact. He’s perfectly fine. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

 

“No…it’s…okay. What’s going on?”

 

“You never called.” Lestrade told him, regrouping on the point he’d wanted to make before all of this.

 

“I gave Sherlock your number.”

 

“I know. I see Sherlock relatively frequently. That number was for _you_ to call if you needed to.”

 

“I didn’t.” It was rushed, uncertain.

 

“You did.” Lestrade replied, confident of it. “How are you doing, Victor?” There were a few moments of pause, before Victor replied.

 

“Tired.” He admitted quietly, though despite the late hour Lestrade doubted that it had to do with actual physical exhaustion.

 

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

 

“I didn’t think my father would actually give this company to me, and now that I have it…” Victor sighed heavily. “His books weren’t in order, the staff runs amuck. There are unsafe an illegal practices everywhere. Hell, there were even _children_ here. But if I fire them, then they’ll just get jobs elsewhere because they need money for their families.” 

 

“And?”

 

“And I haven’t been home in a while…Sherlock…I…”

 

“When can you come back?”

 

“I don’t know. Christmas? Maybe?” He sounded defeated. Truly and utterly defeated.

 

“Are you eating all right? Getting enough sleep?”

 

“Not really.” He laughed slightly. “Probably should do better with that.”

 

“Go to sleep now. At a decent hour tomorrow, make yourself something to eat and then eat it. Nothing is going to get done if you collapse in the middle of the day from fatigue.”

 

“I don’t have time-”

 

“For a hospital visit? You’re right. You don’t. You can explain that to your staff. And remember Victor, they’re _your_ staff.” It earned him a half-hearted and _exhausted_ laugh. “Get some sleep, kid.” Lestrade told him. “And _call_ me once and a while, all right? If only to let me know you’re still alive.”

 

“Okay. Thanks.”

 

“Sleep well.”

 

“Mm…you too.” The call ended with a click, and Lestrade stared at his phone for several long moments.

 

He wasn’t sure what exactly was going on, but slowly yet surely he was beginning to realize that it wasn’t just his job to look after these two rapscallions. He _wanted_ to. He wanted to set boundaries for Sherlock, enforce them firmly. He wanted to look after Victor, know that he's safe and not in trouble. He wanted to see them together, happy and whole. It wasn't about following the law…he just  _wanted_  them.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

One year later: they both admitted that they wanted him to too.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

When everything came together. It was…almost obvious. Lestrade wanted to care for the ones he loved, but that also meant keeping them out of trouble no matter how much they hated him for it. So he had no trouble whatsoever taking control of Sherlock when he was about to do something recklessly dangerous. He also fully understood Sherlock’s modus operandi, and was more than willing to let him run through London like a madman. He trusted Sherlock would know right from wrong, but was always there when he screwed up. After Sherlock had razed everything to the ground, Lestrade was still there to help make sure he had stable footing to regain his balance on.

  
And at the same time, he had no qualms at all about looking after Victor. Over the phone he calmed him, spoke with him, set him right. In person, it was a hand on the back, an easy word, a welcoming smile, and an open heart. He was a border around Victor’s mercurial state of being, giving him space to change somewhat, but always grounding him and keeping him from pushing himself too far.

 

Sherlock needed someone he could manage, but he wanted to be managed at times as well. He slid between Victor and Lestrade perfectly, clinging to them both and allowing his fiery nature to take hold. He wanted to push boundaries, but he needed boundaries to be pushed right back at him.

 

And Victor just wanted to look after those around him while being looked after at the same time. He _yearned_ for stability and understanding. His exhaustion and frayed nerves dissipated almost instantly, because when the moment he started to a breaking point, Lestrade held him close and did what Sherlock never understood howto do. 

 

Where Sherlock thought it was blindingly obvious that he loved Victor, he wouldn’t have allowed a bond mark if that wasn’t the case, Victor needed to be _told_ it. “You're ours.” Lestrade whispered into Victor’s ear, rocking him gently even as Victor’s eyes fell closed and he could just listen. “You’re ours, and we’ll never leave. Never.”

 

Sherlock had gotten better about following Lestrade’s lead, joining him in reassuring their partner even though he never _did_ quite work out the reason why it was necessary, and everything just fell into bliss after that.

 

They still had ups and downs, but it wasn’t like before, and it certainly would never be conventional.

 

But that was who they were: unconventional to the last.

 

It worked just fine for them.


End file.
